


Refuge

by mala_ptica



Category: Magneto: Testament, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/M, post-Liberation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:51:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mala_ptica/pseuds/mala_ptica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love shines in the hollowest of places, even to a pair of scared, hungry teenagers making their way across Europe together after the Liberation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PragmaticHominid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticHominid/gifts).



The experiment with the train having been an unmitigated disaster (both of them having overestimated their latent fear of trains), they set out on foot for the next leg, so to speak, of their journey. Their soles worn thin with the effort, but neither would admit to any pain, until when they stumbled upon a deactivated mine. Max, ever the hero, thrust his body in the way, guarding her against misstep, but in the dimming light, stumbled. They both heard the sickening crack, and his hiss of pain, as he bit his lip, struggling not to make noise, as he’d been conditioned to do. Magda caught him by the elbow, his moth-eaten coat slipping between her bony fingers, and pulled him up. He tried to walk, but stumbled again, and she supported him as they walked on. There were a few farmhouses that looked abandoned - well, burnt out, rather - along the road, and she aimed for the nearest one.

They made it to the house, just as the blue of the sky had darkened, and they couldn’t distinguish the green of the leaves on the linden trees, gazing from overhead. Hesitantly, she knocked on the door, both of them hoping there would be no answer. With luck, silence answered, and they made their way in for the night.

The house was deserted, but a cot and a stove were still present, along with the smell of smoke and dust. She grimaced at the former, but Max’s pained breathing by her ear set her on the course - he needed a place to lie down, and not in the woods, for the night.

They tread wary over the glass shards and wire cris-crossing the floor, and whether either one wondered what had gone on there, neither spoke of it. Once Magda had set him down on the cot, and eased his shoes off - batting away his meager attempts to stop her, insisting that he look after her - she set to searching the cupboards for canned foods.

With luck, there was a discovery of canned salmon, and French wine. A feast.

She lit candles in the window for them to see by, then brought them down to the floor, where she had laid out the meal. She pretended not to notice as he ran his hand over her shorn hair, thrusting the wine bottle at him, instead.

“You’re much better at getting these open,” she said, not meeting his eyes, but at his soft chuckle, she could not resist looking up at his face, and watched with shy embarrassment as he pulled the cork out with his teeth, and gave her his best attempt at a saucy grin.

The salmon, alas, was past its prime, and had to be thrown out. They resorted to drinking on empty stomachs, sitting on the cot, shoulders brushing. She must have had too much to drink, because after a while, when Max made a fool of himself, trying to sing some Russian drinking song he’d heard from the prisoners of war in the camp - and failing, miserably - she sought to counter him, show him how it was done. And she didn’t even really think of what she was doing, what song she had chosen, til she felt the tears sting her cheeks, and realized that she’d chosen a tune her sisters had taught her.

Max hugged her with one arm, awkwardly, given their mutual sensitivity to touch. She didn’t push him away, but she took the wine back out of his hands, and finished it, straight from the mouth, ignoring the cup they’d shared.

He didn’t say a thing about it, but stretched back, to give her more room on the cot. She relished it for a bit, went outside, and cried alone, until she was too tired to stand any longer. When she crept back inside, the candles gave off almost no light - the pools of wax having drowned the little flames out. She crept along, using the sound of his breathing as guide, then felt her way to the cot, kicked off her shoes, and stretched out next to him, folding her arms around his chest as he slept.

And then, as every night, she whispered to his sleeping back that he was hers, and she wouldn’t let him go. But perhaps the wine was too strong this night, or perhaps her fear of losing him and seeing him in pain again - even if only physical, this time, and something so light - hurt her more, because when this time he took her hand in his, and squeezed it and told her he would never leave her, she did not mind at all.


End file.
